The Mask and the Child
by Ozy the Talking Haystack
Summary: My take on what caused the B.R.A.I.N to crack. Poem, based after Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven".


Last week my Mom found an old rhyming dictionary at a garage sale and gave it to me, and I've been going nuts with poems ever since then. This was one of the results. Enjoy! I based the rhythm after Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (best poem ever).

The Mask and the Child

I can tell a tale so chilling,  
oh so horrid, oh so thrilling,  
of betrayal and blood spilling  
on a bronze and concrete floor.  
When I tell you, please take warning;  
In this tale, there's no morning  
amidst the weeping and the mourning,  
only night forevermore.

Come, let us start...

It all began with a toymaker,  
aome ambition, a masked taker  
who gently guiles the toymaker  
into hoping more and more  
that life could be much better  
so with a single letter,  
He became the go-getter  
of the man who loved a war.

It was a work of art.

The scientist built up a machine  
unlike the world had ever seen  
and stepped right in between  
the growing gap of rich and poor,  
but while things were getting wild  
and the crowds were getting riled  
the man tended his brainchild  
and loved it like nothing before.

The B.R.A.I.N went to his heart.

Every day the B.R.A.I.N grew strong  
amidst the protests of the throng.  
Things seemed to move along  
at a pretty decent score.  
But one thing the man forgot  
was, in a way, he should have taught  
B.R.A.I.N right from wrong, but he did not,  
A mistake he later bore.

One night things fell apart.

On that simple midnight dreary,  
as he worked on, weak and weary,  
there was a knocking, and quite blearily,  
he foolishly opened the door.  
There four soldiers came through charging,  
ever moving, ever barging,  
and the soldiers loomed, enlarging  
over a terror they'd ignore.

They would take the B.R.A.I.N and depart.

The man realized he'd been betrayed  
and saw the Chancellor's masquerade  
so, with a simple kitchen blade,  
charged forward with a roar.  
With a single blow he was downed  
And his head cracked against the ground  
with cries of "Daddy!" echoing 'round  
As they dragged B.R.A.I.N out the door.

No words can describe a broken heart.

When he woke, he thought "It stands to reason  
that since war is out of season  
that this man is commiting treason  
and will drag us into war.  
He has stolen away my child  
and my trust he has defiled,  
so will I be reconsiled  
with this man I now abhor?"

"No!" Cried the icy heart.

So began a phase of planning  
of the mask's demise, spanning  
forty five days of planning  
and a vow, "He'll draw breath no more."  
Nine little ones created;  
among them, his soul dispated,  
each design more complicated  
then the little doll before.

This time the man was smart.

He gifted them with right and wrong  
and prayed they'd get along  
for they were his swan song.  
Never again'd he'd hear "Encore!"  
As they walked into the battlefield  
he watched them go, and then he kneeled.  
One final prayer, his fate was sealed.  
"The world someday they will restore,

but me, I walk the path to hell."

With a start the Chancellor woke  
and a voice from the bedside spoke.  
"It only took a stroke  
for the guards by the door,  
just as they did to me that night  
when your filth all came to light;  
now you stand accused tonight,  
as shameful as a whore."

The Chancellor jumped up with a yell,

But before he could lash out  
The toymaker leapt up with a shout  
and slashed wildly about,  
painting the walls with deep red gore.  
The Chancellor cried out to his nation;  
his voice showed pure desperation  
as his soul sought liberation  
when his body hit the floor.

The scientist coldly wished him farewell.

There was the sudden sound of footfalls  
and of bullets hitting the walls  
and the man with the nine ragdolls  
fell silent forevermore.  
As the explosioned gently rebound  
and died against the walls around  
there was only the tiny sould  
of a machine shocked to the core.

"Daddy?"

They say that if you ever step into  
that dreary sleeping room, you  
can see thing's from it's pount of view  
as his creater's blood begins to pour  
out onto the concrete tile,  
for you won't stay for a while,  
as you see the sight so vile,  
the tale that should've been lost in lore.

Now go away, for all is well.


End file.
